HARUO YUKI

Born in 1993. In 2019, he won the Mephisto Prize for Successor to the Hanging Company and debuted that same year with the retitled The Hanging Company. The Ark, published in 2022, became a hot topic after sweeping various mystery rankings and was nominated for the Booksellers' Award. His other works include The Circus Enforcer, Clock Thieves & Crooks, The Ten Commandments, and Salome's Guillotine.

1

The trip from Tokyo took the whole day. I met with my editor, Mr. Mitobe, at Shinagawa Station at nine in the morning, and we took the Shinkansen to Okayama, then a local train, then a bus. There weren't many buses this far out, so we had to wait for two hours at the bus stop.

When we got off the bus just before sunset, I could see the hot spring inn where we'd be staying on the other side of the river. It was an old building, five stories tall, concrete walls with cracks I could see even from there. It was the only tall building anywhere in sight.

“Wow, we don't even need to check the map. Well, let's get going.”

“Oh, right.”

Mr. Mitobe took one look at the building and started walking quickly. I followed behind him, feeling my shoulder bag weigh me down. The hotel was right across the river, but we had to walk some distance to reach the bridge ahead of us.

It was a particularly cold February. Since it was a weekday, there were no tourists around.

As I opened the hotel's glass door, Mr. Mitobe took out his smartphone and opened our reservation email.

“I'm going to check in now.”

“Oh, thank you.”

I had left all the travel arrangements up to Mr. Mitobe.

After we put our bags down, we decided the first order of business was getting dinner. There was a Western-style restaurant in the area. Since I'd left all of that to him, I didn't object.

The restaurant was on the same street as the hotel, only a few minutes' walk. It was clear at a glance that it was a long established building, as the mortar on the outer wall was peeling. Checking my map app, I saw the restaurant had mixed reviews.

Looking through a window, I saw there were no customers at all inside. It wasn't tourist season, and it was probably too early for any locals to be eating there.

“Hello, welcome!”

As soon as the bell on the door rang, a waitress called out to us. I felt a bit of relief to see that at least the service was good.

She showed us to a small table by a window. As I opened the menu, I saw rows of grainy photographs of food that looked like they'd been taken with an old digital camera. Without giving it much thought, we ordered two fried food sets.

After placing our orders, my editor placed both arms on the table where napkins and glasses of water had been left for us and leaned towards me.

“Have you thought of anything? You had plenty of time to think on the way over.”

“No, I can't think clearly on moving vehicles. I just kept getting stuck trying to think of names for the Watson.”

“And did you decide? On a name, I mean.”

“Not yet.”

This was a research trip. Not that I knew what I was researching.

I'd been asked to write a new novel. Last year and the year before that, I'd written closed circle mystery novels with titles referencing the Old Testament, and I'd been asked to write another work with a similar theme.

Unable to decide on an idea, I'd thought of a small rural village I'd seen on a TV travel program, and when I haphazardly mentioned the setting of a small village in the mountains, my editor suggested we go.

To be honest, I didn't see the need for research. I didn't write stories based on real places, and I wasn't expecting to have the apparently common experience of “getting inspiration while traveling and making rapid progress in my writing.” I had never felt that before.

But I did want to go on a trip, so I'd immediately declared “Oh, good idea, maybe I'll be inspired.” Mr. Mitobe quickly decided on an itinerary, and I was able to go on a three day, four night vacation at my publisher's expense.

I'd planned to have ideas for the new work ready by the day of my arrival, and to talk about them as though I was just coming up with them after being inspired by the local scenery. I had wanted to make things as easy on myself as possible.

However, that plan hadn't made any progress, and I'd arrived completely empty handed. Now I found myself with no choice but to actually come up with ideas here. I felt like a reseller who'd failed to buy his stock.

“Well, if you can put a plot together by the end of the month, you should be able to write the book in about three months, right? Then we can release it at a good time.”

“Yes. I hope I can manage it.”

I pretended to have just thought of something and turned away from the window.

Mr. Mitobe watched me without a smile, as though I were a small animal acting ridiculous.

I've known Mr. Mitobe for about three years now, but we haven't had many opportunities to meet in person, what with the pandemic and all. He's a man with no flaws who does excellent work, but he rarely reveals his own emotions, and I still don't know what his personal preferences are regarding novels.

We continued to exchange thoughts on my next work. My thoughts slowly shifted from coming up with ideas for the book to coming up with ways to avoid his questions.

This was my first time in a restaurant in such a strange place, and with no other customers around, our conversation echoed through the entire room. I felt my nerves shaking.

The waitress who'd taken our order emerged from the back.

“Sorry, the picture in the menu shows it with fries, but we're all out. Is that okay?”

“Oh, I see. That's too bad, but we'll be fine, won't we?”

I followed Mr. Mitobe's lead and nodded. I hadn't even noticed the fries in the picture when I made the order, so I had no complaints.

The waitress didn't seem very sorry. I guessed that was a common occurrence in that restaurant.

She went back to the kitchen, took our order again, and then, for some reason, she returned to our table. She placed her right hand by her mouth as though she was speaking softly (but didn't actually lower her voice any) and asked us a question.

“Excuse me, but are you two from a publishing company? You're working on a mystery story, right?”

She'd clearly overheard us. She must have thought it was okay to talk to us because we'd spoken so casually.

“Ah, yes, you see...”

After glancing at me to confirm that it was okay, Mr. Mitobe told her that he was a literary editor and introduced me as a mystery writer who'd made my debut a few years ago.

“Oh, so you're setting your next work here? Is it a murder story?”

“Well, we came here because I thought I might write about a place with a similar sort of feel to it.”

I was careful with my words. If I said I was going to set the story here, it would just create unnecessary problems. Besides, I doubted anyone would be happy if I told them I wanted to turn their space into a crime scene.

“I see. This place is just a hot spring resort, and if you asked me if there's anything else to it, I'd be like 'No, nothing'. Well, it is the start of a mountain climbing route, so during mountain climbing season lots of climbers come through, but in winter it's quiet as can be.”

“So I wondered why you two came here, but when I heard it was for a novel, well, everything clicked. It's true that if you're looking for places for a mystery, somewhere like here might be more suitable than a big touristy hot spot.”

Was that really the case? I still didn't have any ideas.

That said, while she'd didn't appear to recognize me, from the way she talked it sounded like she was at least a casual fan of mystery novels.

“What do you think? Are there any mystery-like stories around here?”

I said that to try and get on her good side, but I instantly regretted it.

It was a boring question. I had asked it without thinking because I was tired of trying to come up with ideas for my next work and wanted her to derail our conversation.

“A mystery-like story? Here? Uhhh... I wonder?”

She hummed, groaned, crossed her arms, tilted her head, tilted her head the other way, and generally looked to have disappeared into herself. She was seriously straining to think of something.

Just as it seemed the silence was going to stretch on into infinity and I was about to withdraw my question with a “No, that's alright, I'm sorry I asked something so strange”...

She spoke up.

“There is one, but... Is it alright if it isn't about a murder case? It isn't even a crime, really, but it could be a mystery-like story if you think about it.”

“Really? I mean, no, it doesn't matter what sort of story it is. How amazing. There aren't many mystery-like stories in the world.”

I said that, even though it was a pretty awful thing to say after asking the question I did.

“No, it just seems like one. It's actually a really dull story. But I thought someone who's involved in mysteries might find it interesting.”

“Um, do you know the name Alice Arisugawa? You probably do, don't you?”

“Huh? ...Um, yeah, yeah I know him, yes.”

I was taken aback by the sudden mention of the familiar name. As someone involved in mysteries, there was no way I wouldn't recognize it.

“What happened with Mr. Arisugawa?”

“Oh, it isn't anything that has to do with him personally, of course. It's not like I've ever met him. It's a bit embarrassing to admit because it involves my own family, but the story's about my cousin.”

“My cousin really hates Alice Arisugawa. But for some reason he's read all his works. Normally you wouldn't read everything put out by an author you don't like, would you? No matter how much I think about it, it doesn't make sense.”

2

“Oh, I'm going to go ask the manager for permission.” She was crouched over to make eye contact with us, but then she suddenly said that and went back to the kitchen. It looked like we were in for a long talk and she wanted permission to take the time off work.

When she came back, she borrowed a seat from the next table over and sat down.

“Sorry for being so pushy.”

“No, not at all.”

The waitress introduced herself as Ai Fukunaga, age 29. She was born right there in the village, and after graduating from high school, she spent two years at a junior college in a neighboring prefecture, but she'd returned and lived there ever since.

She told me about the restaurant, which she'd been going to since she was a child and where she was now working part time.

“My cousin used to live in the village, too, but he moved away a few years ago. His house was a ten minute walk from here. My uncle lives alone there now.”

“So your cousin hates Mr. Arisugawa, but he still reads everything he puts out?”

“Yes.”

“All of them? Not just one or two stories, but absolutely everything? He's written quite a lot, you know. I think he's up to fifty or sixty works by now.”

“Well, I didn't see him read them all, so it's not like I can prove it, but from what I've heard, it sounds that way.”

Ms. Fukunaga began to tell us the story of her cousin.

“I used to see my cousin all the time. Our houses were close and we got along fine. My cousin's house had a ton of books. My uncle loves novels. My cousin read them too, so he seemed to know a lot about them.”

“I read a fair amount now, but back then I wasn't all that interested in them. I'd just make an occasional borrow here and there if the book was popular.”

“So... um, how long ago was it now? One of Mr. Arisugawa's books was made into a TV drama, right? It was called Criminologist Himura and Mystery Writer Arisugawa.”

“Oh! Yes, that's right. It's been... what, eight years since the first episode aired? A drama adaptation of the Writer Alice series.”

I asked Mr. Mitobe, who was sitting opposite me.

“Yes, I believe it first aired on January 17th, 2016.”

He had a bizarre memory that held dates like that, allowing him to recite them without checking his phone. It was about eight years ago that Criminologist Himura and Mystery Writer Arisugawa first aired on television.

“Right, it was in winter. I recognized the name Alice Arisugawa before that. My uncle was a fan of his, and I remembered that there was a book from that author on the bookshelf in my cousin's house. It's a pretty memorable name. But I didn't have any interest until I watched that drama.”

January 17th, eight years ago. That would have been after she graduated from junior college, around the time she started looking for a job.

“I'd made plans to go to karaoke with a friend from the next town over that night. But right as I was getting ready to leave, it suddenly started snowing, and it got to be too dangerous to take the car out. So I had no choice but to cancel and sit around at home watching TV, and that was right when the first episode of the Hideo Himura show was airing.”

“I was just about to go to bed, so I was only passively watching, but it was pretty interesting and I started wondering what the original was like. So I decided to ask my cousin.”

She assumed he'd read the original work and would be able to make a recommendation. Made sense.

“A few days later, I went to see my cousin. His house is huge. My uncle owns a bowling alley and a restaurant in the next town.”

“There's the main building and an annex, with the library in the main building. It's a room about the size of a small conference room, with all four walls covered in bookshelves. That's where I found my cousin.”

It was a weekday, but since they both had time, they met in the afternoon. Their conversation went something like this:

Ai: Hey, can I ask you something? Do you know the author Alice Arisugawa?

Cousin: Yeah, I do. Why?

Ai: He got a drama recently. I wanted to read the source material, but where should I start?

Cousin: What? You want to read it?

Her cousin looked grimly at one corner of a bookshelf. There was a row of Alice Arisugawa's novels in hardcover and paperback.

The books in the library weren't her cousin's, but her uncle's, but since it was the family library, he was allowed to freely take any book from the collection. It seems Ms. Fukunaga also regularly borrowed books from there.

Ai: I kinda recognized the name, but I've never read a single one of his books.

Cousin: You aren't missing out on anything. Seriously, Alice Arisugawa isn't worth your time.

He, who had been leaning against the bookshelf, turned his back to Ms. Fukunaga and spat those words.

Ai: Well, there are so many books there, so he must be selling alright. They've even been adapted into a TV drama. I don't think there's any way they could be a complete waste of time.

Cousin: You're so naive, Ai. That's not how the world works. Sometimes books with no value whatsoever just become popular. And every single one of Alice Arisugawa's books is like that.

Cousin: And I don't just mean that they aren't interesting. If they were just wastes of time, that would be fine, but it's worse than that. I'm telling you, they're so bad that they'll shorten your life.

Ai: What? Are they cursed tomes or something?

Cousin: They might as well be. Cursed tomes...

Ai: Have you even read them? Are you just talking out of your butt?

Cousin: No, I've read them. I've read them all. I'm saying this after having diligently read them all.

Ai: All of them? Really? Well then, what's that one about? That, The Swedish Mansion Mystery?

Ms. Fukunaga pointed over her cousin's shoulder to a paperback book with a blue spine on the shelf.

Cousin: Oh, it's about an impossible crime in a snowy mansion. A murder takes place in a log house at the foot of Mt. Bandai. It also features Hideo Himura, the one that was made into a TV drama.

Ai: I see, that sounds interesting.

Cousin: You'd think so, wouldn't you? But it isn't, like, at all. It's shockingly boring. The synopsis is enough. Going beyond that is like reading the full contract for your internet service.

Ai: Really? Then what about that one? The Double-Headed Devil. It's awfully thick, isn't it?

It was a paperback with a yellow spine.

Cousin: Right, it is thick, and it's the worst. It's a different series from Hideo Himura. The detective who appears in that one is named Jirō Egami.

Cousin: Deep in the mountains of Kouichi Prefecture, there's a village called Kisara founded by a rich man, and the members of a university mystery club go there. One of the members went there on a trip and never returned, so the others go to find her. Then the river floods and the bridge collapses, so the club is split into two groups, one on each side of the river.

Cousin: So the village and the neighboring village are split into two closed circles, and murders take place in each of them... that's the story.

Ai: That's a pretty complicated set up... No wonder it's so long.

Cousin: No, no, no, a short story would be more than enough for something like this. It totally isn't even worth reading.

Ai: Then, what about Ghost Detective? Is that one any good?

She pointed to another book with a blue spine.

Cousin: Oh, that's one of his worst. An absolute lowlight of the genre. The things contained between those covers are nothing but a waste of paper.

“Halfway through, I started having fun with it, so I just kept asking him about one title off the shelf after another. 'What's this one about? What about this one?', but no matter how much I asked, he always responded.”

“You know how comedians will do that thing where they'll decide on a theme, then ask for letters of the alphabet and immediately say a word that starts with them? It was like that. Whenever I gave him an Arisugawa work, he'd immediately give me a plot summary and explain why it wasn't good.”

In the end, Ms. Fukunaga was astonished to hear this:

Cousin: Well, how do I put it? I wound up reading something that wasn't interesting. I really regret it. They must have sprinkled something addictive into the printing press. There's no other way to explain how it sold so well. The publisher must be scheming something like that.

Ai: What? You mean the books are laced with drugs?

Cousin: Well, I don't know.

Ai: Isn't Uncle a huge Alice Arisugawa fan? What do you make of that?

Her uncle, the owner of the library, was an especially avid reader of the works of Alice Arisugawa, to the point where she said he bought two copies of each of his books.

Cousin: Then my father must also be one of Alice Arisugawa's henchmen. Either way, Alice Arisugawa's continued existence is one of the biggest dark sides of the publication industry. The most taboo of taboos. I think people are just too afraid to criticize an industry insider. The world's gone mad, Ai. It'd be better to just not get involved. Though it's too late for that now.

Cousin: You know about the concept of book burning? I'm usually against censorship, but I think they should make a special exception for Alice Arisugawa's books. The government needs to take the responsibility of erasing them from society.

He looked completely serious.

“So I had no choice but to leave empty-handed. It's weird, isn't it?”

It was certainly one of those things that you weren't sure how seriously to take it.

Mr. Mitobe spoke.

“I work on publishing Mr. Arisugawa's works as well, and I can confirm that we don't spray addictive substances into his books.”

“Yeah, I believe that much. We wound up never talking about it again. However, I did continue to watch the drama, and after the final episode... It was March of that year. Right around that time, my cousin left home.”

“So I went back to my uncle's house and borrowed a book from his library and read it. It was by Alice Arisugawa. And it was extremely interesting.”

“I see. And I agree.”

Of course I did.

“What did you read?”

“Well, a lot, actually. I started with The 46th Locked Room, then all the ones with the country names. I also read all four main books of the Student Alice series.”

“His non-series works are good, too. Like his short stories. I really like Too Many Gateways.”

“Oh, I like that one, too. That's from the collection Juliet's Scream, right?”

I agreed wholeheartedly.

“...But that just makes me more curious what my cousin was thinking.”

“It looks like my cousin did read them. I read them, and I saw that what he said about their contents was right. I just don't understand how he feels about them.”

From what I'd heard, her cousin's reviews of the works were too absurd to be upset about. There was no way the plot of The Double-Headed Devil could fit into a short story.

“Did your cousin always have such unusual tastes?”

“No, not at all. He gave me occasional book recommendations since we were young, and he knew my tastes and made good choices, so I trusted his judgment quite a bit.”

“So I don't understand at all why he's so hostile to Mr. Arisugawa.”

After carefully reading through everything he'd ever written, he'd declared that they should be erased from society.

Such troublesome readers were rare. Could it be that he was just a devoted hater? In that case, he should try and come up with some more hurtful criticism.

“You said your cousin left home, didn't you? What is he doing now?”

“He isn't in Japan anymore. He's in Cambodia. It's a bit of family drama; my uncle divorced about twenty years ago. My cousin's mother remarried someone who works there and has been living abroad ever since. My cousin decided out of the blue to help out with their work and left.”

“Oh, is that so? So you haven't seen much of him since?”

“Not much? Heck, not any. I'm told he comes back to Japan about once a year, but he never comes to see me.”

“We contact each other occasionally, like when we exchange New Year's cards and such. Oh, but once I sent him a message after reading a few of Mr. Arisugawa's books. I said 'I read Alice Arisugawa, and it's really interesting.'”

“He left it on read and never responded. I didn't know what he was thinking, so I didn't ask any further.”

And so, for over eight years, the matter remained a mystery.

It was a strange story, and I couldn't make sense of it. It would have been one thing if she'd just said her cousin was eccentric like that, but it seemed like there was something behind all this.

“It isn't important or anything, but it's been bothering me for a long time now. Is this story mystery-y enough?”

“I think so. It's a great story. But what does it mean? I can't think of anything right now.”

I looked at Mr. Mitobe.

He had an expression that was hard to describe, as though he was worried that I didn't have any ideas and I'd turned my back on talk of my own next work, but as soon as he saw that we'd stopped talking, he flawlessly slipped in.

“Mr. Arisugawa has been writing for such a long time that he's been read by all sorts of people. It's only natural.”

After a moment, a voice shouting “Ai! Bring out the food!” came from the kitchen.

“Ah, sorry. Well, that's all from me. I'll bring your meals right out.”

She stood up, returned her chair to the table next to ours, and headed to the kitchen.

The fried food sets were much better than the haphazard picture in the menu made them look.

When it was time to pay, Ms. Fukunaga, who had moved behind the register, asked us as if she'd just remembered.

“By the way, you're staying for three nights, aren't you? What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Um, well, we're going to just take a look around. See if there's anything interesting to see, you know? Then I'll take my time thinking about what to write...”

When I said “take my time,” I looked over to Mr. Mitobe's expression.

“Yes. That is our plan.”

His tone was perfectly businesslike.

“If you have time, why don't you go visit my uncle's place? He loves books, so I'm sure he'd be happy to meet someone from the publishing industry. Also, the house itself is pretty interesting. It's got a lot of elaborate design flourishes, and the annex looks like something from old Europe. He also collects antique fountain pens, if that'd be interesting to you. I think it would be fun.”

“Oh, but if you do want to come, I'll have to check with my uncle first, so you'll have to wait until then.”

“Oh, I see. Your uncle's house is close by, isn't it?”

Her suggestion had caught my attention. Since I hadn't decided what to write yet, it wouldn't matter what I saw either way, and I had grown interested in her cousin who didn't like Alice Arisugawa.

We decided that she would check with her uncle then send a message to our hotel.

3

The next day, we ate breakfast and left the hotel around 9:00 A.M. to see the sights. Although the main purpose of our trip was research, for that day we just went sightseeing.

Mr. Mitobe and I spent about half an hour walking to a nearby dam, and after wandering the area for a while, we followed a hiking trail through the mountains to a small shrine, then took a short break at a lookout point with a wide, panoramic view of the city.

Whenever I saw something that looked interesting, I would say “This looks like it could be used for a trick,” but I was just repeating a cliched phrase for a mystery writer and didn't actually mean anything.

The more we walked, the more anxious I became. Now that I'd actually gone on the trip, I would need to use something I saw or heard here in my next work, but as expected, I hadn't made any progress on that front.

We were planning to have it published in the fall. If I couldn't make it in time, how long could the delay be? In the afterword to The Malayan Railway Mystery, it was written that Mr. Arisugawa went on a seven day, six night research trip to Thailand and Malaysia arranged by his editor, but it took him four and a half years to finish the manuscript. In my case, the trip was only four days and three nights, so perhaps my sin(?) was less than his.

With such pointless thoughts occupying my mind, there was no way I could focus on my work.

We returned to the hotel that afternoon.

When we went to the front desk to get the key, there was a message from Ms. Fukunaga. Her uncle would be home around six that evening, so we could meet and talk after that.

“What do you want to do? Shall we go and visit?”

Mr. Mitobe asked for my opinion. In situations like these, he usually showed consideration for me as the writer and left it up to me without expressing any opinion of his own, but since I was feeling guilty about agreeing to the trip, I found it a bit suffocating.

“Well, since she came all this way, I think we should go. It seems like an interesting home they have.”

There was a phone number on the note, so I asked Mr. Mitobe to call it.

Ms. Fukunaga agreed to pick us up at the hotel at 5:30 P.M. From there, we would walk to the house. She also said her uncle's name was Matsumura.

“Thank you for showing us around.”

“Oh, it's nothing really. I'm just bored. I'm sorry for dragging you around like this while you're supposed to be on vacation.”

“When I told my uncle that someone from the publishing industry wanted to see his house, he was quite interested. So if you'd like, you can share stories with him.”

We walked through the village surrounding the hot spring inn as we spoke.

It was already dark and cold outside. The white light of the street lights shone in a regular pattern. There were few people around, but the surrounding shops and houses seemed busy even this late, so I didn't feel lonely.

We walked along the main road towards the river for a while. As the buildings started to thin out, a side street running to the right emerged.

“This way. It's just a little further.”

Ms. Fukunaga pointed to the shadow of a large two story building on the other side of a field, surrounded by trees. The lights in the windows were on. Even in the darkness, I could tell it was an impressive work of architecture.

After walking about fifty more meters, we approached the mansion. There was a grove of fine garden trees planted along the fence.

The name “Matsumura” was printed neatly on the nameplate. Passing it, we came to a gravel-covered corner of yard that served as a parking space.

“Oh, Uncle hasn't come home yet. But I'm sure he'll be back soon.”

“Is there anyone else here now?”

“There's a person named Ms. Endo who helps with the housework. She's been with him for so long she almost feels like part of the family.”

The building was made of exposed concrete, which stood out against the scenery. Looking out over the wide yard, I saw another building to the right. It was one story tall, and in stark contrast to the building in front of me, it had the air of an old-fashioned Western building. That was probably the annex I was told about yesterday.

Ms. Fukunaga opened the main building's front door without knocking.

As we stepped inside, a small elderly woman was approaching from the end of the hall.

“Ms. Endo, these are the men I told you about yesterday.”

“Oh, yes, welcome to you both.”

Ms. Endo bowed so deeply I felt embarrassed.

“Would you care for some refreshments?”

“Oh, well, do either of you want anything? Would coffee be okay?”

Ms. Fukunaga turned to us and asked. We spoke formally and answered “Please, don't trouble yourself.”

They showed us to the library. There was a reception room, but considering what we'd discussed yesterday, we decided to go straight there.

Just as we'd been told, the room was about forty square meters.

Bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling lined all four walls, and a round table like those in cafes sat in the center. The bookshelves were deep enough to hold large art books. Books smaller than size 4x6 were placed in two rows, one behind the other.

It was quite an impressive library. It wasn't uncommon for a bookworm to own more books than this, but the bookshelves built directly into the concrete walls using metal bars were quite stylish. The books were lined up in rows, as neat as new releases in a bookstore, with the hardcovers organized by author and the paperbacks and the new releases organized by publisher. They were all neatly sorted in alphabetical order.

As I'd expected, most of the works on display were mysteries. Most of them were from authors who'd debuted between the beginning of the postwar period and the dawn of the new millennium, but there were also some winners of the Edogawa Rampo Prize and other literary awards, so it seemed he was also keeping an eye on new releases.

On the other hand, although the collection was neat and organized, its contents were inconsistent and full of holes. Although Seishi Yokomizo's The Honjin Murders, Death on Gokumon Island, The Inugami Curse, and The Village of Eight Graves, as well as Ghost Man and The Reaper's Arrow, were all present, The Devil's Flute Murders wasn't anywhere to be found. The only works by Seicho Matsumoto in the room were Walls of Eyes and Tokyo Express.

Mr. Matsumura probably wasn't the type to let books pile up. He only bought books he intended to read, and this library had been created by saving the ones he'd properly chewed over and concluded he enjoyed. He wasn't like me, who clogs my bookshelves with books I never get around to reading.

“Look, over there. There are Mr. Arisugawa's books.”

Ms. Fukunaga was pointing to the furthest shelf, near the ceiling.

I walked over to look up at the shelf, and sure enough, Arisugawa's works were there.

It was a spectacular sight. From a hardcover copy of Moonlight Game to the newly released paperback edition of The House With a Long Passage, the entire row was taken up by books.

I'd read most of Arisugawa's works, but I didn't own them all, in hardcover or paperback, and they're scattered all over my bookshelves because I haven't organized them. It was my first time seeing a complete collection like this.

“This is definitely the bookshelf of a fan.”

It was a book collection with no indication of the collector's character, but when it came to Arisugawa's works, there was no compromise whatsoever.

“That isn't all. Uncle also bought two copies of each book. That's why there's another set of Mr. Arisugawa's works in the study in the annex.”

She'd mentioned something about that yesterday. He truly was a hardcore fan.

Compared to the rest of the books, it was clear Arisugawa's works were being given special treatment. They alone were all gathered together regardless of format and lined up high on a shelf in the back. Thinking about it, it almost looked like they were being enshrined on a Shinto altar.

“...So, eight years ago, after watching the drama, I came here to borrow a book, and my cousin told me that Alice Arisugawa wasn't worth reading at all in a way that made no sense.”

Ms. Fukunaga stood in front of the bookshelf and imitated the way her cousin had acted at the time.

After seeing it with my own eyes, I thought back on what she'd told me yesterday and concluded that her cousin's behavior didn't feel like the mere whims of a strange boy. The books in that collection were filled with the respect of their owner. For her cousin, there must have been some meaning in denying that.

“What was your cousin's relationship with his father like? Oh, is it okay for me to ask that?”

“Yeah, it's fine, we can't do anything about it now. Well, they never seemed that close, but I don't think it was bad or anything.”

“Oh, did I ever tell you my cousin's name? It's Yuichi.”

“Yuichi is an only child, and my uncle divorced when he was very young, so he lived alone with my uncle for a long time. I think the reason he stayed with my uncle is because his mother decided to go abroad, and would have been difficult to bring a boy Yuichi's age along with her.”

“But it seems he had his own thoughts on that, and whenever I saw him talk to my uncle, it always seemed a bit aloof, or distant. But never in a hostile way.”

Yuichi went to local elementary, middle, and high schools, then took correspondence courses for college while working part time at a nearby factory. Then, eight years ago, he decided to go to Cambodia, where his mother's new husband worked.

Ms. Fukunaga told us that she didn't hear much from him, but he was probably doing well. If life was too hard for him, he would have given up and returned to Japan long before now.

“But I wonder if the reason he came to hate Mr. Arisugawa's books is because of Uncle. Like, Uncle loved them so much, so he started to hate them in response.”

“So if he hates his father, he'd hate Mr. Arisugawa too?”

In that case, Mr. Arisugawa would be getting blamed for nothing.

Ms. Endo brought us coffee. We drank it at the table in the center of the room while we waited for the homeowner to return.

4

“Oh, my uncle's back. Please wait a moment.”

With that, Ms. Fukunaga left the library.

After double checking my appearance and a brief period of nervous waiting, the door opened.

Ms. Fukunaga reentered with a man in his fifties wearing a casual jacket over a gray shirt. He had a long beard and wore glasses with colorful rims. She'd said he owned a restaurant and a bowling alley, so it seemed he had some freedom in how he dressed.

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much for coming. It's such a pleasure to meet you.”

He gave us a gentle smile and bowed. He was supposed to be a business owner, but he had a charmingly casual demeanor without even a hint of business.

We quickly bowed back.

“We apologize for suddenly intruding on you like this.”

Mr. Mitobe took out a business card and introduced himself. I didn't have any cards on me, so I just introduced myself verbally.

“Yes, I was told about you. If Ai invited you, I see no problems with your visit whatsoever.”

He hadn't read any of my work, but he did recognize my name, so he'd allowed me to enter his house even while he wasn't there.

Mr. Mitobe looked around the library as he spoke.

“This is a wonderful room. As an editor, it brings me joy to see so many books I've worked on lined up here.”

“Well, you see how it is. Since I run a restaurant, I've gotten into the habit of being picky about interiors.”

“How about it? Since you've already seen this place, I'd be happy to show you to the annex. It contains my study. You could use it as a setting for a story. Ah, that's right. Ms. Endo?”

He opened the door and called out. Ms. Endo came down the hall.

“Yes?”

“Is the heating in the annex okay?”

“Yes, it should be warmed by now.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

“Will you be staying much longer? Should I prepare some tea?”

“You can go home now, I can take care of the rest. Ai is here, too.”

She acknowledged him and stepped back out.

“Ms. Endo has been helping with my housework for about twenty years now. Every morning, she comes in before breakfast to tend to the yard, and she stays until evening when I get home from work. I'm grateful for her presence.”

Apparently she lived nearby. He told me that she was especially helpful when he couldn't keep up with the housework himself while he was raising his son.

Following Mr. Matsumura's lead, we walked down the corridor towards a back door.

On the way, we passed Ms. Endo, wearing a coat and carrying a small bag.

Going out the back door and walking about a dozen steps into the yard, I saw two flower beds. Beyond the pavement between them was the entrance to the annex.

It was the Western-styled building I'd seen earlier. An intricately decorated bay window spilled orange light to the outside.

Just a glance was enough to tell it was an elaborate piece of architecture. It must have been hard to find a contractor who could do something like that in this day and age. The building itself wasn't very big, but it still looked like it had cost quite a sum.

“There are more than enough rooms in the house, but I had this built as a hobby. I used to read old foreign mystery novels, so I've always wanted to have something like this. But when I had it built, it proved to be harder to maintain that I'd expected. I guess they just don't make them like they used to.”

Rakes, brooms, snow shovels, and other such items were lying by the entrance. They were modern, practical items, and this appeared to be the only place where he had compromised in his dedication to recreating the old Western atmosphere.

Mr. Matsumura put his hand on the knob of the front door. Inside was a small entryway, beyond which lay doors to the front and the right. He invited us in, telling us we could leave our shoes on.

He opened the door to the right.

A gentle warmth drifted from the door. Looking inside, there was a heavy cast iron stove halfway up the far wall, the orange flame of burning wood blazing away.

The study was about twenty square meters in size. The floor was covered in marble tiles and a carpet that looked to be from somewhere in central Asia. In the center of the room was a large ebony desk, and decorative shelves along the walls were also carved from ebony. Everything in the room was made of solid, heavy materials.

“All of the furniture is 150 years old. I had a craftsman take them all apart, sand them down, clean them, and reassemble them.”

Matsumura grabbed the corner of a desk and gave it a shake.

There were three lights, all covered by iron shades that looked fit to knock a man unconscious in a single blow and hanging from the ceiling by chains as thick as a child's arm. On the desk was a magnifying glass and on the shelves were pipes, both probably antiques the craftsman had found somewhere.

“It's amazing. I can see how much work you put into this.”

I occasionally browse foreign auction sites for antiques like these. But because they're so expensive and having them shipped is a pain, I always give up on buying anything.

“I collected these old items to match the interior, which I also had made in an old-fashioned style. I originally wanted to heat it with a brick fireplace, too, but I was concerned about starting an actual fire, so I made do with the stove. It's safer to shut it behind a glass door.”

I looked around the room and, with permission, took a few snapshots with my phone.

“There isn't even air conditioning. That's pretty thorough.”

“I suppose it is. The summers are cool out here, so it's fine, but in the winter there's no heating but this stove. Having central heating would completely ruin the atmosphere. There's nothing but forest around here, so there's plenty of lumber to go around. We dry it out and use it as firewood.”

Mr. Matsumura opened the window in the back of the room.

Looking out, there was firewood cut into 30 centimeter long pieces scattered messily under the eaves.

“See? There's a shed full of the stuff near the main building, and anything that doesn't fit just gets thrown out like this. Every day, Ms. Endo brings some firewood from the shed and starts a fire.”

Next to the stove was a large tin bucket full of firewood.

“That's very nice. Elegant.”

“Well, you could call it elegant, or you could just call it eccentric. I've gone out of my way to make life harder on myself. To be honest, sometimes I think designing this place was a mistake.”

“The other room has an attached washroom and was originally meant to be a bedroom, but I never use it. It's too cold. We could have had it properly insulated, but I insisted on the old-fashioned design.”

“So when I go to bed, I return to the main house. So the whole annex is really just for this study. Since I built such a stupid building, I insist on using it for something. I guess I'm just stubborn like that.”

He said that, but as long as he could enjoy its inconvenience, I still thought it could be called elegant. Besides, from one mystery fan to another, I thought the building's design was pretty sharp.

Mr. Matsumura shut the window and took a look around the room with his hands clasped behind his back, but eventually he appeared to recall something.

“By the way, can I show you my fountain pens? If you don't mind, of course.”

I'd heard from Ms. Fukunaga yesterday that he had a collection of fountain pens.

I didn't know anything about them. Since I'd been given the chance, I decided to take a look.

Mr. Matsumura opened the bottom drawer of the ebony display cabinet and took out several long, thin boxes one after another, lining them up on the desk.

“It's been about twenty years now since I started collecting them seriously.”

It seemed like it had been a long time since he'd last expanded the collection, and he occasionally muttered things like “Oh, I forgot I had this one.”

There must have been over a hundred pens. He told us he had pens from both domestic and international manufacturers, ranging from ones that today went for tens of thousands of yen to limited editions that cost over one million. He took ten pens that particularly caught his eye out of the boxes.

Everything in the room was furnished in antique styles, with two exceptions.

One was a recently released laptop computer on the desk. Since it was a modern study, it would be impossible to not have one.

The other was the collection of Arisugawa's books in the display cabinet.

The earliest book there was published in 1989, so their bindings didn't exactly blend in with the décor. Despite that, they had been carefully arranged in a position of prominence. It looked like their owner considered it important that they be kept somewhere easily accessible.

Mr. Mitobe looked at them and spoke.

“Mr. Matsumura, when did you first start reading Mr. Arisugawa's works?”

“Well, it was when The Moai Island Puzzle was first released, so almost from the beginning. Before then, I primarily read translated mysteries, but I enjoyed being able to read a Queen-styled story set in modern Japan. I became a huge fan of Magic Mirror when it released not long afterwards. It really is a masterpiece, isn't it? I read his first three works and became totally hooked. I've bought everything he's released since. I'm not normally the sort of person who goes out of my way to buy two copies of an author's work, but I have a deep attachment to Mr. Arisugawa.”

I agreed, Magic Mirror was a masterpiece.

“By the way, have you ever seen the TV adaptation of Hideo Himura? The one that started in 2016.”

“Yes, I did. I thought it would be okay to watch most of the series online, but I wanted to catch the first episode as it aired, so I left early on a business trip. This house doesn't have a TV, so I watched it in the hotel.”

He'd had plans to spend one night in Tokyo on January 18th, but he decided to stay a day early to watch the drama.

“By the way, Uncle, did Yuichi actually like Mr. Arisugawa's books? Or did he hate them?”

Ms. Fukunaga asked that out of nowhere. The whole reason we'd been invited to this house in the first place was because her cousin had developed a deep hatred of Alice Arisugawa.

Mr. Matsumura showed a bitter smile. He must have heard the story yesterday.

“Oh, I'm sorry. It appears my son has been saying strange things.”

From his point of view, it probably wasn't something he'd want to discuss with guests. Maybe it was just because we were in the publishing industry, but I didn't think it was anything he needed to feel sorry for.

“But, you know, I'm not sure why he hates Mr. Arisugawa so much. I'm sure I first recommended his works to Yuichi when he was in his first or second year of middle school. I believe it was The Swedish Mansion Mystery. I told him I thought he'd enjoy it.”

“Did you ask him what he thought of it?”

“No, not particularly. That boy never went out of his way to talk to me about books. But he did read some of his other works, so he must have found them somewhat interesting.”

According to Ms. Fukunaga, he hadn't read “some” of his works, but all of them. Despite that, he'd become a conspiracy theorist who denounced Mr. Arisugawa as the secret puppeteer behind the publishing industry.

“I wonder what happened. Did he have some problem with me and start taking it out on Mr. Arisugawa? But that doesn't make sense either.”

“I don't recall him ever acting like he hated me that much. If he just didn't like them, then there's nothing I can do.”

Mr. Matsumura had become talkative. He sounded a bit lonely. He had been living alone for a long time, and he was probably upset to hear about the strange behavior of the son he hadn't seen in eight years.

“...Well, he must have been unhappy that I didn't indulge him enough. I just wanted him to learn to make his own way in the world. He seems to be making a comfortable living, so it must have all worked out, but I never expected him to go all the way to Cambodia.”

I didn't know about their circumstances, but he must have had some feelings on his son leaving him to follow his mother to another country.

Why did he hate Arisugawa's works? If it was a purely emotional issue with no basis in rationality, then there was no point in thinking about it.

5

Just as we were about to leave, Mr. Mitobe, who was in the middle of taking one last look around the room, let out a small cry.

“What is it?”

Mr. Matsumura asked as I stood there surprised.

“I've realized why your son is so critical of Mr. Arisugawa's works.”

“Oh? You have?”

The mystery had been solved. If he'd declared it so confidently, it must not have been a mere idea, but a convincing theory.

I'd thought of various different possibilities, but I hadn't been able to think of anything. In the end, Mr. Matsumura's son was just a crazy person – even though I write mysteries for a living, I was ready to dismiss it like that.

However, Mr. Mitobe wasn't acting like a proud detective who'd cracked the case. He looked uncomfortable. When he noticed that we were both looking at him, he grew even more uncomfortable.

“Do you mean you realized what Yuichi was thinking? I'd love to know.”

“Well, now that I've realized it, it would be strange to keep quiet, so I'll tell you. But... can you treat everything I'm about to say as just one person's story? I don't have any evidence.”

“It's possible you'll find evidence later, but... Please don't resent me. It's not my fault I'm the one who noticed.”

Judging from the way he spoke, it sounded like there was something unexpectedly sinister going on.

With that preamble, Mr. Mitobe began.

“The mystery we find ourselves faced with is why Mr. Yuichi so harshly criticized Mr. Arisugawa's books and yet continued to read them.”

“The first question, then, is whether his criticism was sincere? Did he actually dislike the works, or was he saying things he didn't believe?”

“But thinking about it clearly, it's obvious he didn't truly believe his own words, as the criticisms he gave were completely nonsensical. So, why did he say them? The events before and after Ms. Fukunaga asked him to recommend stories by Mr. Arisugawa are highly suspicious.”

“The key point is the drama. In a sense, the broadcast of Criminologist Himura and Mystery Writer Arisugawa may have been the primary trigger for this mystery.”

“First, Ms. Fukunaga saw the drama featuring Hideo Himura, became interested in the source material, and visited this house two days later. She said that she saw the drama because she'd originally planned to go to karaoke with friends, but canceled it due to snow and ended up staying home.”

“Mr. Matsumura, you also saw the drama, didn't you? You don't have a TV at home, so you watched it in a hotel on a business trip to Tokyo.”

“At that time, Mr. Matsumura and his son lived together in this house, and Ms. Endo visited every day to help out with the housework during the day, is that correct?”

Mr. Matsumura and Ms. Fukunaga nodded. All of that had already been discussed.

“At that time, your son was leaving for Cambodia in two months, correct? He must have been making various preparations.”

“I believe you are well off financially, but you didn't do much to actively support your son, did you? I heard that he took university courses via correspondence while working part time.”

“Well, yes, that's true. Of course, I would have helped him if he'd gotten into real trouble. I didn't particularly agree with him moving to Cambodia, either.”

“I understand. Now, keeping all that in mind, it was on January 17th of eight years ago when the drama first aired. That night, Mr. Matsumura was staying alone in a hotel in Tokyo, so after Ms. Endo the housekeeper left, your son was alone in the house, correct?”

“And Mr. Matsumura had many valuables in his study in the annex. For instance, his fountain pen collection.”

“So, I asked myself if it was possible that your son had a bad idea. Perhaps he'd taken some fountain pens and secretly sold them to fund his travel.”

As he explained his theory, Mr. Mitobe carefully observed Mr. Matsumura's expression.

Mr. Matsumura didn't seem upset. He put his hands behind his head, looked up at the ceiling, and softly declared...

“...It's possible.”

From a father's point of view, it must have been strange to think of his son in that way.

“I see. Then for the time being, I will continue under the assumption that he did.”

“Your son went out to the annex after Ms. Endo finished her work and left him home alone. With his father away, it was his chance to leisurely take some fountain pens.”

“It was about twenty years ago that Mr. Matsumura actively collected fountain pens. So even if one or two went missing, it was unlikely they would be noticed, and even if they were, he'd likely figured that, since he was leaving for Cambodia in two months, he could get away without facing the consequences.”

“If Mr. Yuichi had no knowledge of fountain pens, it would have taken him a long time to choose which ones to take. He probably checked the market value of each one on his smartphone before making the decision.”

“But there was another problematic event that night. Snow. As a result, Ms. Fukunaga wasn't able to go to karaoke and was stuck at home.”

“What was your son doing at that time? What if he was in the annex looking at the fountain pens when the snow began to fall?”

Mr. Matsumura gasped.

I finally understood where Mr. Mitobe's logic was headed.

“There's no way he could have returned to the main house by stepping through the snow. If he'd left footprints, it would have been obvious that he'd gone to the annex during the night. If he did anything to provoke suspicion, he may have been exposed for stealing the pens.”

“So, how could he leave the annex without leaving footprints? He'd have had no choice but to wait until morning. When Ms. Endo came by the following morning, she'd go to get the snow shovel from the entrance to the annex.”

“That would leave a trail of her footprints through the snow. If he tiptoed through them, Mr. Yuichi could return to the main house without leaving any evidence that he'd ever gone to the annex.”

“And so, your son was forced to spend the night in the annex.”

“But there was a problem. It was cold. It was snowing. The only heating in the annex was a wood-burning stove. Ms. Endo apparently brought firewood from the shed every day, but that day, Mr. Matsumura wasn't home, so it wouldn't have been strange if she didn't bring any firewood.”

“If that was the case, it would have created a problem for Mr. Yuichi. He had to stay there overnight. He must have originally intended to leave as soon as he'd chosen the fountain pens, so he may have entered wearing nothing but casual indoor wear. If that was the case, he would have been in extreme danger.”

“However, fortunately... or perhaps I shouldn't say so, there was something in the annex that could be used for fuel.”

The four of us were all staring at the same spot on the shelf. There was a complete set of the works of Alice Arisugawa lined up.

“This was in January 2016, so his most recently released work at the time was The Man Who Locked Himself In. Even back then, if you had both hardback and paperback copies, it would amount to over one hundred books.”

“He must have burned them for warmth.”

“Books alone may not have been enough, but when he opened the window, he saw that there was also excess firewood thrown under the eaves. It wasn't properly dried, so it wouldn't have caught fire easily, but if he used the hundred books as kindling, he may have been able to manage.”

“I see. That certainly makes sense...”

Mr. Matsumura mumbled while staring at the stove. He looked like he was picturing his son burning Arisugawa's works in it.

“Even if that kept out the cold, there was a problem. The books would have gone missing from the display shelf, so he needed to account for that. Recall that Mr. Matsumura was on a two night trip to Tokyo. So in other words, he needed to have the books replaced within two days.”

“The night before Mr. Matsumura returned, his son likely took the second set of Mr. Arisugawa's books from the library to the annex.”

“But that meant that now the books from the library were missing, so he somehow needed to cover that up as well.”

“When your son used the books as fuel, he must have removed their covers and bindings. He then chose books of the same size from the library, rebound them, and put them on the shelf. As a result, at a glance it would appear that there were still two sets of Mr. Arisugawa's books neatly arranged on the shelves. The books were in two rows, so if he used the ones in the back for the replacements, it wouldn't be noticed right away that they were missing.”

“In that way, he was able to create the surface level impression that there were no traces remaining of his theft from the annex. Of course, if he'd left books with different contents on the shelf, someone could have noticed the swap at any moment. He would have had to purchase replacements for all of Mr. Arisugawa's works. It would have cost quite a sum to replace that many books, but if he had managed to sell the fountain pens, he would have had enough money to cover it.”

“I believe that is everything Mr. Yuichi did, but one unexpected event did happen. Ms. Fukunaga watched the drama and came to borrow Mr. Arisugawa's books.”

“That was two days after it first aired, correct? In other words, it was two days after the theft, so the new books couldn't have arrived yet.”

“So when I came to borrow them, what was on the shelves was actually just the covers? The contents were completely different books?”

“Yes. He couldn't let you take any of the books, Ms. Fukunaga, so he had no choice but to make up that absurd story about Alice Arisugawa being a diabolical criminal mastermind.”

“I see,” she said.

Mr. Matsumura also sighed and put both hands on the desk, seeming to deflate slightly. Their reactions were confirmation of Mr. Mitobe's theory. There was nothing about his hypothesis that contradicted Yuichi's personality.

“I wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to discuss this theory, but all the conditions lined up.”

“No, it sounds very likely. How troubling...”

Mr. Matsumura held his head.

Mr. Mitobe then appeared to think of something.

“That's right, there may be a piece of circumstantial evidence.”

We returned to the library.

“Excuse me.”

Saying that, Mr. Mitobe picked up a paperback copy of The Moroccan Crystal Mystery. The cover read “The latest in the hugely popular Country Series: A mysterious poisoning occurs right before the author's eyes! Be intoxicated by Arisugawa's extraordinary reasoning.”

He took one look at the colophon and said,

“Ah, as I expected. This is the third printing from December 2015, likely the reprint released for the TV drama. The cover has been replaced, but the contents should still be from that third edition.”

“It isn't uncommon for older editions to be reprinted with new covers, but the other way around is much less common.”

“I see. Well, I bought this paperback the day it was released, so there's no way it's the 2015 edition.”

We took a few more titles off the shelf and checked their colophons. As expected, many of them were too new to be part of Mr. Matsumura's collection.

“Even if he did buy new books, it would have been a lot of work to track down the same editions. People rarely read publishing information in the first place, and since he was leaving the country soon, he must not have checked very closely.”

Ms. Fukunaga spoke.

“That settles it then. Yuichi, you really did it, didn't you?”

“Yes... he did.”

Mr. Matsumura lamented. It was a pathetic voice. It sounded like he'd forgotten we were there.

The library was suddenly very awkward. And as complete strangers, there was nothing we could do to offer consolation.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Ms. Fukunaga took out her phone.

“Hey, Uncle, why don't you call Yuichi?”

“Call him? Now?”

“Well, you're a hard man to talk to, you know? Besides, if you call him when you're alone and it feels uncomfortable, you'll just stop and get all sad. I'll call for you. I don't know if he'll answer, though.”

“I see...” Mr. Matsumura replied haltingly.

“What time is it in Cambodia? I wonder if he's gotten off work yet.”

Ms. Fukunaga opened the phone app, selected an old number from the call history, hit the call button, and immediately set it on speakerphone. The dial tone echoed off the library walls.

This didn't seem like something we should be there for. Should we leave? However, while we were hesitating, the line connected.

“Uh, hello? Ai?”

He sounded sleepy and confused. I'd been told the two of them rarely kept in touch, so this phone call must have caught him by surprise.

Ms. Fukunaga raised her voice and spoke in an exaggerated manner.

“Oh, Yuichi? Heeeeeey, it's been a while, huuuuh?”

“Eh? Yeah. Yeah, it's been a while. What's up?”

“There's something I want to ask you about. Um, what ever happened to that fountain pen?”

“What? Fountain pen?”

“How much did you get for it?”

A rattling noise came from the speaker. It was the sound of a smartphone being dropped. Ms. Fukunaga had to hold the phone away from herself to keep Yuichi from hearing her laugh.

“How did you know?”

“Wow, you already admitted it. You stole it from Uncle's study, didn't you?”

“Please, don't tell my father. I'll make it up to him. Does he already know?”

“Yes, he does. He's standing right here. He can hear everything you're saying.”

The sound of the phone being dropped sounded again.

“You also used Uncle's books as kindling for the stove. By the way, there are some men from the publisher here, too.”

“Huh? Why? What's going on here? Well, it was so cold, I would have frozen to death if Alice Arisugawa hadn't written so many books. But I bought replacement copies of them all, so please forgive me. I had them replaced, good as new.”

“What kind of excuse is that? Even if you froze to death, it wouldn't have been because you were trapped or anything. You just didn't want to get caught.”

“Yeah, that's true, but, like, I contributed to their sales numbers. I contributed a lot. Although there were some books I couldn't buy new. Apparently An Illustrated Guide to the Locked Room 1891-1998 was republished by Tokyo Sogensha a while ago, but it was pretty hard to find until then. And Alice's Random Reading, too. I wish someone would republish that already. That's what got me into reading Saho Sasazawa.”

Mr. Matsumura, who had been standing silently the whole time, finally spoke.

“Yuichi, when will you be coming back?”

“Oh! Sorry, sorry, um, April. I'll be coming back in April.”

“You mean coming back to Japan. Come visit us for once.”

“Okay. I'll go back. To my home. I'll explain everything then.”

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm fine.”

Mr. Matsumura went quiet. Ms. Fukunaga took over.

“Also, is there anything you want to tell Mr. Arisugawa? I told you there's someone from the publisher here.”

I wondered what sort of question that was, but Yuichi answered immediately.

“Well, I buy all your works new! I really enjoyed Sunset on the Investigation. They aren't selling it here, but I downloaded the ebook. Please release the fifth main entry of Student Alice soon. And congratulations on your 35th anniversary of writing.”

Leaving behind that selfish remark, the call ended.

“He seems fine.”

“I guess so.”

Although his bad behavior had been exposed and they hadn't spoken in a long time, Yuichi didn't seem any different than he had when he'd lived in the house. The two blood relatives exchanged looks and confirmed their feeling of nostalgia.

6

Ms. Fukunaga suddenly remembered we were still there and started speaking.

“Come to think of it, you two were here looking for ideas for a mystery, right? How about it? Did you get anything?”

“An idea? Well...”

If we were only counting ideas that I'd come up with myself, then there wasn't much of anything.

“What about this story? Could you make it into a novel?”

“Eh? Well, if you want me to, I suppose I could make it into a short story. But the content seems a bit difficult...”

“Eh? Really? It's okay, isn't it?”

Was it?

Then Mr. Matsumura spoke up.

“Well, it was just a stupid prank of my son's, but since you've already heard it as a story, you can consider it a memorial to the case. It's not a matter for the police or anything, so it should be fine as long as you write it in such a way that it can't be traced back to him.”

“Is that so? Well...”

Apart from my next novel, I did also have need for a short story coming up. If I could use this story for that, it would make my life a lot easier.

Come to think of it, Alice Arisugawa – the fictional character from the Writer Alice series, not the real person – has a policy of never using Himura's fieldwork for his own stories. He's strictly a fiction author.

However, the deadline for my short story was the end of February. I didn't have much time.

If it turns out I can't come up with any other ideas no matter how much I struggle, I'll use this story – That's what I decided.

“Well, maybe I will use it. I hope Mr. Arisugawa doesn't get upset with me. Is this okay?”

I looked at Mr. Mitobe, asking for permission.

“I don't know.”

His response was emotionless. Well, that was a job for the company.

After thinking it over, we decided to get dinner.

It was almost 9:00 when I left Mr. Matsumura's house. As I walked down the frozen night road back to the hotel, I ruminated on one thing: I still hadn't made any progress on my next closed circle novel.

It was the 35th anniversary of his debut. If I ever wanted to get there, I'd have to continue writing like this for thirty more years. The very thought made my head spin.